


The Sword's Heart

by Omoni



Series: The Mardimalle Short Stories Collection [2]
Category: Mardimalle - T.L. Blackmore
Genre: Blacksmithing, Breaking Gender Roles, F/M, Fantasy, Mardimalle, Mardimalle Short Stories, Mostly friendship, Some slight romance, Swords, sword and sorcery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 16:16:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9279596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omoni/pseuds/Omoni
Summary: In the county of Delpi, a smith named Gert lives a quiet, unassuming life - until a man named Alchim comes into her shop and asks her for an unusual sword.





	1. Chapter 1

To Gert, the heart and the sword were one.

It had always been that way, when she was growing up at her father’s feet, being taught the many ways to forge the thousands of types of blades, for each person who came into his shop, this was one of the first lessons he taught her.

“It’s the reason why every sword is different,” he told Gert, when she was eight years old – too young to start but old enough to listen. “Even if you have twins who are alike in every single way walk up and ask for swords, both will leave with completely different blades. Every sword is different, because no two hearts are the same.”

It was an old-fashioned way of putting it, since her father was one of the last children who had had some memory of the Race Wars, the wars that almost led to the extinction of _all_ of them, and all for some idiotic supremacy war based on physical differences, a stupid idea to her, but a sensitive one to him. Because of how he was raised, by a generation so poised on the edge of fight or flight in case the war should break out again (it hadn’t yet, and that had been at least fifty years ago). Because of this, he still tended to stick to the past, especially in speech. “Heart” was the old term that had been replaced with “mind” during the Pacifist Movement, upon a recent discovery that when it came to thoughts and emotions, it was the mind that housed all of that, not the heart, like previously thought.

Despite being a firm child in and of the Pacifist Generation, she still understood her father’s phrasing and ways, and sometimes found herself using the very same outdated terms, even when she knew they were inaccurate. For whatever reason, using them made her feel closer to her father, and his vision. So she always thought, no matter her age, that swords had hearts, and that a heart, no matter how peaceful, had steel deep within. How else could it keep pumping all of that blood?

Fanciful, but she liked it. He had always let her stay at his feet as he worked over the anvil and hammer, hence her easy absorption of his strange phrasing. It was no surprise, since she had no mother to her “mind” her and keep her out of the way. Her mother had run off shortly after giving birth to Gert, for reasons she didn’t know nor cared to. Her father didn’t seem to miss the woman much, so early on she followed his lead and found that she didn’t really miss what she had never known, never lacked. She sometimes missed the idea of a mother, especially when she and her father fought, but those moments came and went, and she ultimately still preferred the life she shared with her father.

Watching her father turn gobs of molten metals into fantastic and shining swords was one of the greatest pleasures of being alive for Gert, one that she could never recover alone, when, at the age of twenty-six, her father had passed away during the night, found over a cold anvil, leaving the forge to her. Tools were common enough, but swords were special, especially now. While she slaved over the oven and felt the swear drip off her brow and hiss upon hot metal, no matter how good it felt, it was never akin to how she felt when watching her father from her perch upon the dusty and dirty floor. She would have given anything now to watch her father make a mere spade if it meant seeing him again.

But again, fancies.

It was amazing how easily Gert had managed to get used to the idea that now she was mistress of the forge, something she had fantasied about as a little girl. For her, after she had passed her deep grief for the loss of her father and allowed herself to open her father’s will, the moment she read the line, _“And my livelihood, the Blazing Star Forge, I bequeath to my only daughter, Gertrude,”_ was the moment she had grown used to the idea. Some days, she even felt like her father had merely been keeping it warm for her until she was ready to take it over. But then, she had never made a real sword, so perhaps not.

Certainly he had gotten her started at an early age, perhaps earlier than her father, himself. While other girls of eight or ten were learning how to cook and clean and mend, she was learning how to weld and form moulds and take arm measurements. While other girls of thirteen swooned at the growing boys, consumed in how to wear their dressed and tress their hair, Gert spent the same time learning how to hammer a newborn blade flat and buff it to a blazing shine, a true testament to the name of the forge. And finally, when other girls, now women, of eighteen, were pinning their hair up in matronly styles as they got married and had strong children, Gert cut her hair to mere inches, as short as she could without shaving it, something she and her father had argued over for hours, and donned the leather apron, spats, and gloves of a smith, becoming her father’s partner in truth as well as in show.

It hadn’t been easy back in those times, when things were dictated by gender roles, well-suited to simpler times after constant rebirth and rebuilding that came with war. Women were expected to do their part to raise the continent back up into the pacifist nation it was meant to be, and along with the men, had very specific ways in order to keep that expectation going. Gertrude, despite her old-fashioned name and somewhat antiquated profession, refused to “do her role’s part” and instead “acted the man’s”. Perhaps if she had been a more feminine type, this would have bothered her, and this is not to say she lacked such things. She knew how to wear a proper female dress and appropriately wrap her head in colourful cloths to hide the lack of hair. she just preferred the leather of her childhood, and more importantly, her father.

Add all of that to the actual work itself, her education tended to be strained as well. She wanted to learn both sides of the coin, what it meant to be both man and woman of the house, especially since she was the only woman and would someday also have to be the man as well. She knew how to eventually sew and mend and cook, but it took her far longer to master those skills than forging a perfect pitchfork. (She soon found the glory of barbecue, and used the forge for such double-work. She was sure her father would have been mortified, but also would have eventually forgiven her. Maybe.)

She wasn’t made of the steel she mastered; she did cry when she was young, though later she learnt to swallow her tears until at her father’s feet again, where the heat of the forge as well as her father’s warm kindness would dry the tears from her cheeks. However, as the years went on, she found that her job was not only a staple to their little town, but almost sacred.

People held a certain reverence for those who worked with fire; it was an element not easily tamed, even if some of the southern towns were to be believed and that they could create fire-proof paints and such. So even though she grew up the butt of many jokes, and certainly was never seen as a “real woman”, she was certainly seen as a true smith, something she almost wanted to brag about. The rest of the town would never know her true joy, of listening to metal sing, or seeing the almost perfect connection of swordsmaster and sword. To her, what they faced was mediocrity, and her pity, perhaps, was the shield she needed to survive her father’s death. And following, her sudden solitude.

She had been her father’s true partner for five glorious years. In those years, he let her do most of the work, staying only when she needed to meet a deadline and had exhausted all other outlets. in the last few months of his life, especially, he let her handle the majority of the work – even the heavy-duty work he once swore he would burn his hands off before letting her touch. It was likely then that she knew he would leave her soon, but she denied it for another six months, until it became reality. The sorrow of losing not only her father, her best friend and mentor, her antagonist and her greatest ally, threatened to crush her, until she buried herself into the work he had left her, and she continued on.

Despite the many relationships she would make, the many friendships she would almost have, she had never met anyone who seemed to understand the forge like she did. Once she had hoped to take one of the local children, those of her classmates, under her wing and pass her teaching to them, like her father to her, but it seemed that still only she had that special kinship to the forge. everyone she approached, be it child or adult, was afraid, skittish of the flames.

She figured it was her destiny to die alone, with her father’s secrets burned into her heart. That was, until a man named Alchim walked into her town, and asked her for a sword.


	2. Chapter 2

The village within the continent of Mardimalle in which Gertrude Dalmeeda lived was so small that it didn’t even have a formal name; informally it was called Farm Town. It consisted of a general store, small infirmary, Gert’s smithy, and a handful of houses scattered all over the place. Surrounding the village was a generous copse of greenery, and in the distance, the mountains of the winged people could be seen peaking over the treetops.

The village itself wasn’t one to emphasise magic, which, at this time in Mardimalle, was the norm, despite considering the cost and havoc magic had wreaked upon the lands before peace times. It was certainly nowhere near as devoted to magic as one of the townships in the south, by the name of Argom, which had made itself rather well-known for this fact. (A fact which would see Argom as a country, long after Gert passed away.) Farm Town, which was situated in a county called Delpi, was rather like the epitome of the county’s attitude to magic: take it or leave it in terms of usefulness, but otherwise, it was worth more trouble than not. Delpi itself could only boast about five or six real magical practitioners, and even those few lived on the border of Kishal in the north – another place in which magic was celebrated (though nowhere near to the extent of that of Argom) – so perhaps they didn’t exactly count. In fact, the sole Academy of Delpi also existed on that border, so perhaps that was more telling.

The people of Delpi, though spread thin over much land, were of hardy stock. The land was reliable and responded well to the various weather curves that were always the will of the world, so as farmland it was well-suited. Known for its rains and thus constantly rich soils, the very same reason it gave rise to places like Farm Town were also why those places were so spread out; only a certain type of people could brave so much rain and make the land work for them despite it. When it came to fruits and vegetables, especially potatoes, Delpi was in no way poor, but it had a long way to go before it became prosperous enough to be a real country, rather than county.

The day that changed Gert’s life had started out as average as the ones preceding it. She had woken up before dawn, rekindled the forge’s fires from its soft sleepy cinders to a higher burn, and fixed herself a cold breakfast of the previous night’s leftovers as she waited for the fire to rise, then settle. Once it had, she rushed the rest of the meal, donned her apron, and got started on the day.

Since it usually took a few days to complete a tool or weapon, Gert usually had at least two jobs a day, give or take emergencies or special circumstances. She tried her best to make sure they never stacked up on her, but since she loved sitting before the anvil with a hammer and a chunk of steel waiting to be struck, or in front of the forge with a pair of tongs holding a tub of liquid metal waiting to be moulded, it was rare that such a thing would ever happen anyway. She was too devoted to her profession to allow herself to fall behind.

That day was an oddly light-work day, since she had had only one job to do, and it was a simple rinse-and-review job. The hay farmer, Jocal, had requested a new pitchfork, and while he had always been wary of Gert and her lifestyle (which, if she thought about it, made sense in some way: as far as she knew, she was the only female smith in all of Mardimalle. She certainly was in the west, which she knew for sure, so who knew?), he had been a friend of her father’s and was a good customer all the same. This time, he had been kind enough to pay in advance, which always helped her make a better weapon. While pitchforks were usually pretty easy to mould and make, it was the quality of the fork that usually set her back a few hours. Pitchforks had to be durable and had to last years and years of constant use, especially with the amount of hay-work she knew Jocal had to deal with on a daily basis. When it came to farmer’s tools, there was no time to be lax about quality, and paying in advance helped Gert get just the right quality of materials to make it worth the advance.

In any case, she was almost done polishing the prongs of the fork and smoothing out any imperfections she could see, when someone came to the doorway of the forge. Gert was too preoccupied now on sanding the handle to a fine smooth texture that she didn’t hear them at first. She was too busy thinking about timing and whether or not she could squeeze in a hot lunch before she had to run into town and get more materials for her next job.

Only one of those things ended up happening. While she was sanding and blowing the dust away from the handle, cursing under her breath because of it, the figure in the doorway cleared their throat and ended up silencing her rather milk-curdling epithets. She froze, sensing it was a man in her doorway, only to have it confirmed when a man-shape came closer behind her and blocked some of the sunlight from her view, casting shadow over her. She was pretty sure it was Jocal, trying to come early to collect, since it was just like him to be so passive-aggressive. With a sigh, she said sharply, “Sorry about that, but I’m sure you’ve heard worse from Da. It won’t be done ‘til afternoon, I told you that. Come back then, Jocal.”

There was a brief pause, in which she heard the man behind her shift. She tensed, waiting for a whiny protest or an insult about her sex, but was surprised when a stranger’s voice answered back with, “But we haven’t even started yet, so how can it be done?”

Gert jerked up, almost sanding off the nail of her thumb as a result, and finally looked up to find a tall and somewhat dusty young man standing in the doorway. Certainly _not_ Jocal.

“Ah, excuse me,” she stammered, feeling her face burn and her whole body break into a sweat. She clumsily got to her feet and put the fork aside, making a hasty bow in greeting to him. “I’d thought you were a customer. May I help you?”

Gert eyed him closer than she usually did, thinking rather oddly that she certainly _hoped_ she could. While she could admit easily that there were at least a few good-looking men and women in her village, they were all married now and had irritable personalities to boot (they didn’t approve of her lifestyle any more than Jocal did, but at least Jocal respected her.). In terms of love and sex, her experience to date had only amounted to a handful of kisses resulting from dares, kissing the smith’s weird daughter as a novelty, but that hadn’t soured her on the opposite sex, which she preferred.

Indeed, this man was one to appreciate. He was a few inches shorter than herself, but what he lacked in height he made up for in sheer appeal. His hair was long and light brown, curly and tied back into a single messy tail, though the hair leading to it was smoothed down rather prettily. His eyes were a pleasant, earthy brown, contrasting nicely with his sun-browned olive skin, and his nose was hooked and long but well-suited to him. He had a nice, average build, dressed in a long-sleeved, patterned tunic that belted to the waist and reached his calves, almost covering the leggings he wore beneath sturdy boots. A pack was slung across his chest, and his entire countenance suggested better days, but he bore his unkempt appearance with a straight back and an easy-going smile, lacking in arrogance.

He was certainly not the kind of man she was used to.

“That’s alright,” the man said now, completely without sarcasm or the loss of his smile. “I should have announced myself. Are you the smith of the town?”

Gert steeled herself now against the likely grief she was bound to get once she answered. No matter how nice they looked, or acted, everyone in her experience always had _something_ to say about her profession. “Yes. _I_ am.”

The man seemed to relax, almost seeming shorter as a result, which surprised Gert. After all, she had been expecting exactly the opposite. “Thank goodness,” he said, sounding like he meant it. “I’ve been all over this county and there’s only one or two smiths all told!”

Gert raised her sooty brow, placing a hand on her hip. “That’s hardly true,” she said, smiling a little. “The _real_ smiths hide from the tourists and make their apprentices take those jobs. We’re a county of farmers, sir. We need our tools and weapons for ourselves.”

“Hide from tourists…?” he echoed, bemused. “Why would they do that?”

“Just why I said, as well as the little fact that around here, we’re seen as yokels, and thus get robbed from quite a bit. Or we _used_ to, before we got smart to you. Most of you now either run off without paying or waste our time with pithy requests,” Gert said all of this easily; she knew from first-hand experience, after all.

The man blushed, which pleased her. Someone who felt embarrassment for the acts of strangers was sure to have a good heart in some way. “That’s horrible,” he said softly, proving her right. “I won’t do that, I assure you. I intend to pay, upfront, and return for what I paid for.”

“And what _are_ you paying for, sir?”

“A sword,” he replied easily, his eyes glinting a little.

_Know your customer, Gert,_ her father had always told her. _The more you know about them, the bigger a heart their sword has, and the better it will serve them._

After a moment, she agreed. And so it began.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This one is much shorter than the previous two because I screwed up, so Part Four will be up sooner than usual. Sorry about that!

Gert proceeded with the standard checklist: height, weight, arm’s length, force of thrust, and size of hand. Next, she took notes about what kind of sword the man, whose name was Alchim, wanted: a long blade, of light metal, durable enough to take hits without cracking, with a simple hilt in either a gold or silver finish, with a plain leather scabbard.

The simple design surprised Gert, as she was expecting something a little more fancy for someone so good-looking, although she wasn’t sure why. Maybe some biased part of her assumed that all good-looking people were obsessed with beauty in everything they did. Once she realised this of herself, she was rather ashamed, and went back to the plans with an open mind.

Another thing that surprised her was that he requested a specific blend of metals and other materials that he wanted to use for his sword. He was very specific about it, especially when she tried to suggest better materials that offer similar effects that he desired.

But he was very adamant about it. “It _has_ to be exactly the way I say,” he insisted, almost sternly. In her many years on the job, she had never come across such an unusual request, nor had she ever even seen a sword that was made of such a combination of different alloys. However, for her, what one would judge a hurdle was merely a challenge, and she loved a good challenge.

As he spoke, she could already imagine the sword coming to life; the methods she would use to ensure the blade’s integrity, how long she would have to bake the blade to make it as light as he needed without making it brittle, the type of gold powder she would use to make the hilt that would never lose its shine… and so on.

Finally, when she had a sketch of it in her mind, she named her price, which she left high but open for negotiation. But Alchim surprised her by paying in full, without even raising an eyebrow of protest against it. She found herself once again wondering the depths that Alchim had, just by these simple actions alone.

She found herself wishing she was a more glamorous woman, like the married women she saw around the village. She wasn’t an ugly woman, but her profession gave her what some people would call a masculine personality. She spoke her mind and care little for the language of clothes and make-up. In addition to her shorn, close-cropped dark hair, she usually wore sleeveless shirts that were covered in oil or soot, as well as thick pants or shorts in similar state, sometimes coupled with holes peppered through her clothes from various fire accidents. She was somewhat stout, as much as her job was done seated, but her arms were well-defined and muscular, usually covered by leather gloves, and was still as fit as any athlete. Those hands, though often protected by gloves, were still calloused and rough around the edges, scarred all over from fire and heat and molten metals. Her complexion, which was a light brown, was usually darkened by the very same soot and oil that graced the rest of her clothes, though clearly smooth and only slightly scarred by errant sparks. Only her eyes remained untouched, shining clear, emerald green, a rare colour in this part of the continent, and the only gift she was given by her mother.

But, she concluded that night, after Alchim left for the day with a promissory note for the amount owed to her, amidst the colourful peacocks of most of the women her age, she wondered at her lifelong vow to remain celibate. She had always vowed off men, because she knew they would never look past her initial look and job. She also knew that most single women her age were also at the stage of desperation to settle down with any man able to take care of her. But since Gert didn’t think she needed a man to take care of her, she didn’t feel that same panic.

But meeting Alchim, the only man she had ever met who met her eyes without even flinching, who accepted her profession without even hesitating or doubting her credentials… she felt an interesting stirring, a sense of longing, a curiosity towards what it could be like to be a partner with someone else through life.

She wondered how long he would be staying in the area, and if she should, perhaps, solve at least one curiosity of carnal life before he left.

_But first,_ she shook herself a little, having to smile at her silly thoughts, _the sword._


	4. Chapter 4

Despite her initial flash of inspiration, brought even more to light with the following day bringing Alchim and his plans on paper to her forge, as the day’s hours went by and she worked and worked, she found that the blade wasn’t going to be an easy make. _In fact,_ she thought sourly, glaring at the cracked metal upon the anvil before her – her third one – _it’s going to be a lot harder than I had anticipated._

Something was bothering her to the core, and it was something she couldn’t quite put into words. Alchim’s presence in the beginning of the day seemed to help bring some clarity to the plans, once he left and she began to put it into motion, she had come up to several issues that she hadn’t foreseen, and probably wouldn’t ever have, even if she had tried.

She had made dozens of swords, both with her father as well as on her own, and throughout each one, she had done it without knowing her clients personally, with the exception of perhaps two or three, had managed to make perfect swords for them regardless. All had she needed were the initial plans that she had asked of Alchim.

So why had ever several hours of work and materials been for nothing?

It was with this final addition into the trio of failure that Gert suddenly realised she was hungry. It was now well into the evening and in her excitement and focus, soon leading into frustration and determination, she had also forgotten lunch.

Perhaps it was her body’s way of letting her know that enough was enough for the day. When she managed to remember to eat at regular mealtimes, she made sure to do so at the local inn on the other side of town, so tonight would be no exception. She washed up a bit, changed into some clean clothes, and headed out, hoping the fresh air and delicious food would clear her head and give her new insight.

On her way there, she heard a shout that almost scared her off her feet. She turned, and with a thrill of surprise saw Alchim running to catch up to her, looking cleaner and more relaxed than before. She was pleasantly surprised, but also a little embarrassed; she wasn’t sure how she was going to admit to him that she was already having trouble with his request, especially with the fact that he had paid ahead of time.

But once he caught up with her, he didn’t even mention it. A pleasant scent of clean soap greeted her along with the sound of something almost electric, something she couldn’t name but recognised a little. She smiled at him and greeted him, and he smiled back.

“Are you going to that inn, across the way?” he asked her, waving in the direction that she was in fact going.

Gert, however, reacted the way she would anyone else: with suspicion. “Why do you ask?”

“Because, so far, you’ve been the nicest person I’ve met so far in this town,” he replied, his smile turning a little shy. “Blunt, really blunt, and honest, though I think that’s their way of being nice.”

She had to laugh a little, though again she wasn’t surprised. Her fellow villagers tended to be even more suspicious than she of travellers, especially those who tended to stay longer than a day. There was the old worry of losing their jobs, while others were just bored and needed something – or someone – new to distract them. She detested it, but in her way understood it.

She also knew that he had been right: blunt usually meant they were trying to be nicer. Maybe they had heard how much he had paid her and were thus making their welcome the only way they could: badly, but at least they tried.

“And honest,” he added, a tinge of pink spreading over his cheeks. She wondered what had been said to him that would cause such a blush, but didn’t ask. He was a customer, after all.

“It happens,” she agreed, rubbing a hand over her hair in slight embarrassment of her town. “People here aren’t very… worldly.”

“Alchim nodded. “I figured it was something as simple as that, and not personal.”

Gert found herself _wanting_ to know more about him, what made _him_ blush, and not just for the sword and the chance of fixing it. He seemed so laid-back and easy-going that she found it hard to understand why he was in this place to begin with.

“Where are you from?” she blurted out suddenly.

Alchim blinked with wide eyes, as if she had startled him. Then he scratched his cheeks, looking to the side. “Ah, let’s talk about that over food, shall we?”

Gert tilted her head, but nodded. She was curious enough.

Dinner was a small affair, as the inn wasn’t very big or occupied to begin with (the season wasn’t right for tourists). The food itself was always excellent, however, which was why Gert made the hike and ate there every time she could.

As they ate, they talked.

“I’m from up north,” he admitted reluctantly when Gert repeated her question, and when she tried to get the exact location, he evaded her easily, a word-game she loathed because she always lost. Instead, he asked her, “How long have you been a blacksmith?”

She wrinkled her nose at him, but still answered his question, anyway. “Officially? Six years,” she said easily. His eyebrows went up, but he didn’t comment, so she went on. “But I watched my dad ever since I could crawl. I learnt everything I know from him.”

“I had heard about him on my way here,” Alchim admitted, surprising her to the point of stopping her from eating. Gert wondered how often he would manage to surprise her, and decided to be ready for many times.

“The great Boldarn,” he went on, meeting her eyes. “The best in the county – _country_ , even.”

Gert smiled widely, feeling warm inside. “Ah yes,” she agreed, “I certainly can vouch for that.”

“What about you?” Alchim asked, smiling back.

Gert’s smile faded as she shook her head, her eyes going back to her meal. “I could never live up to him,” she said without any self-pity. It was merely fact. “I’m good, but there was – and is – no one like him, and there never will be. I’m lucky he taught me what he knew, even if I can’t apply it as well as he could.”

She realised, then, that she was probably talking too much, and too personally, to a client. Intellectually, she was well-aware that Alchim was just that: a client, and not a friend. But even knowing that, she decided to ignore it. Alchim was easy to talk to, and he seemed not only to want to listen to her, but to also genuinely care about what she had to say.

“It much of been hard,” Alchim said suddenly, after a small silence, “being a girl.”

There it was. Gert had to laugh a little. “Being a girl is hard enough in a small town, but taking over a profession that the male sex currently rules? Even harder, yes.” She paused, smiling into her cup, her mind’s eye focussing on the past. “But my father never made me feel inferior for being a girl. In fact,” she shut her eyes, feeling a hot jab in her chest, spreading up to her throat, like she always did when she spoke of her father. “In fact, he always made he feel like, to him, I hung the moon.”

She trailed away, realising that Alchim was staring at her with cheeks far pinker than they had been before, his eyes wide and on her, not even touching his food. She laughed, awkwardly this time, feeling her own face burn redder than his. “But I’m sure you don’t really need to hear about some Daddy’s girl harping nonsense,” she said, waving a hand at him, as if waving away her words as well as her feelings.

Alchim shook his head slowly. “Believe it or not, it’s the nicest thing I’ve heard anyone say about anyone else in a long time,” he admitted sadly, his eyes now on his food, which he picked at lightly.

Now Gert was almost itching to demand where he came from and what his history was, but she retrained herself. Just because she was easy with her own life didn’t mean everyone else was. And by that time, they were both almost finished eating, at the night was approaching faster than she had eve before seen. She felt a little frustrated. She had hoped to learn more about him in order to work better on his sword, as if finding a key in his history that would unlock the petulant recipe he gave her.

Instead, she spent the entire time babbling anecdotes about herself and her town, and had learnt next to nothing about him.

When the meal was ended and they both paid their bills, they bid goodnight and made plans to meet the nest day for a lunch and a progress report. Gert, as she walked away, vowed that that meal would be all about _him._


	5. Chapter 5

Throughout the entire night, Gert worked. She ruined another trio of prototypes that she had been sure would work (each time, too) and that failed, almost spitefully, to work. By the time the dawn was approaching, and she realised she needed sleep in order to be rested for lunch with Alchim, she was regretting not working hard to know him, because clearly, nothing else would make it work!

The sum that Alchim had given her had turned out not to be as big an overestimation as she had initially thought, because she was dipping into it enough times. It was bad enough that she was worried she not only would make no profit, but even owe Alchim, for this shoddy work now splattered and scattered all over her forge.

Her sleep was fitful, and when she went down for lunch, she was already angry and determined to try again before she went to meet Alchim at the inn.

Therefore, it was almost a sweet relief when a form darkened the doorway, and she heard his voice call gingerly, “It sure is hot in here.”

She wanted to cry with relief, and felt the shame that came with that. She was sick of the sight of the failures of hours of work, eager for a change of pace and something not related to said failure.

She turned, and saw him peering very carefully, holding onto the very edge of the doorway, as if the fires would reach out and take him into their hearts. She had to smile at that, and as she shucked off her apron, she shrugged and waved around her. “Anger and frustration are great kindling. Give me a few moments, I have to freshen up.”

She darted back into her home to do just that, her mind racing, trying to think of what she could possibly say to Alchim that would excuse her lack of progress and somehow still make him keep her as his smith for this job. Because, she realised, she didn’t want him to leave angry. She wanted to make him happy.

It was great that she was getting along with him so well, and it had been a long time since she had made friends with a client who could get past her gender. While Gert wasn’t a very dependent woman, and most who spoke of her claimed her a misanthrope, she was still human and suffered from the occasional bout of human loneliness and the desire for friendship. The fact that Alchim was male was perhaps a slight plus to her want of friendship, since she preferred men and he was an attractive one, but even if it remained platonic she knew she would be happy either way.

She wondered if some kind of mental idiocy was breaking her progress on purpose to keep him here, and was ashamed at the very thought. Her father would never have been so weak. Her father would never –

Her mother had been a client.

She shook her head angrily and brushed at soot on her clothes that weren’t there. It didn’t matter. She had a job to do and a client to please, so instead of wasting time, she needed to either keep going, or tell him the truth of her troubles.

Gert was trying to find several ways to word such thoughts in a way that wouldn’t drive him away when she returned to the forge. What she saw made her pause in place. Alchim was standing at the anvil, one hand on his chin, the other hand spread out and over the anvil itself. His eyes were narrowed, and to Gert’s shock, his fingers shimmered with a faint, almost golden-brown light.

 _His clothing is embroidered_ , was her first thought. _How stupid I am. How completely stupid I am to of missed that!_

“You’re a _mage_ ,” she said softly, startling him. He yanked his hand away and with it, the light faded. He stood up his full height and hid his hands behind his back, like a child chastised for eating paste. His face was red, his eyes alight in panic, but it wasn’t fear that Gert felt, though he obviously assumed she did.

Mages, as mentioned, were so rare in this area that coming across one was like coming across some kind of mythical beast. It was easy to think that it took only one false move or look at them and, boom, you’d be cursed for life.

When she didn’t run away, Alchim sighed deeply, his hands dropping to his sides. “Yes,” he agreed. Clearly this was something he had wanted to keep to himself.

Gert felt more confused than shocked now, and her face showed it. After all, Alchim was still her client, and someone she wanted to be friends with, so why would she hide her emotion from him at this point? Why, even, would she even think he would curse her?

She wasn’t one to scare easily. Fire taught her that,

“If you’re a mage, then why do you need a sword? This is peace time; warrior mages don’t exist anymore, at least not outside major cities.”

Alchim paused now, staring at her in naked shock. She was oddly please; now HE was the one surprised, not she. “That… wasn’t the reaction I was expecting from you.”

Gert looked away, then looked back at him, right in the eyes. He swallowed, hard. She blushed, cursing her easily stirred up blood, and fluffed her hair into misshapen spikes. “So what? That’s not an answer to what I asked.”

Alchim shifted from foot to foot, then wondered, “Let’s just have lunch, shall we? We tend to talk well over food.”

Gert agreed to this, partly because she was starving, but also because, when she looked at her anvil, all she could see was that beautiful golden-brown shimmer, like precious soil. With narrowed eyes, she followed him to the inn, more determined than ever to make this meal _all_ about him.

* * *

“The truth is,” Alchim began, twirling a loose stand of hair around one finger, “I knew who you were the moment I saw you. Before, in fact. I came south to find you.”

Gert stopped eating, blinking slowly. She had asked him the moment their food came to explain, and he had done so, quite willingly, to the point of even surprising her yet again. He talked about things she said unexpected, yet here was something he said that was unexpected to her. “Me?” she echoed, voice muffled by food.

He nodded. “I’ve been all over this area, short of the winged people’s mountains, trying to find a smith that can make the sword I described to you. None of them could do it, and when I asked for suggestions as to who was likely able to, nearly all of them first said your father, than you.”

Gert was flattered, for herself as well as her father. Yet, she also felt a wave of dismay; she had let all of them down after all. She couldn’t do it either.

She finally told him so, not once looking up at him, barely able to say it. Only when the silence felt unbearable did she look up, and saw that he was smiling to the point of dimples. She stared, as if he had just flashed her.

“That’s okay,” he said. “I figured that if you failed as well, it meant that it was the design that was flawed and not the designer, which meant, in turn, that I was right all alone,”

Gert wrinkled her nose at him, causing him to smile. “You’re going to start from the top, Alchim,” she almost snapped, pointing her fork at him.

He nodded, his shoulders lowering. Clearly he had wanted to tell her sooner than this. “Here’s the full truth: I’m from Kishal. It’s smaller than Delpi, but there are three times the amounts of people living there. It’s pretty easy to be anonymous there, and, well, I don’t want to be.”

Gert chewed thoughtfully, a new respect blossoming within her. There were no surprises in what he said about people; Kishal was known for its overpopulation, and known for the reason why, which was a wonderful climate. It was that climate that not only attracted the sick and the elders, but mages, as well, as being in an area with calm weather meant easier magic to cast. Because of this, it hosted the time’s most prestigious Academies, which attracted even more mages like flies to dung. Personally, climate or not, Gert felt that there were too many people there, and it would likely someday cause trouble, but she kept that to herself.

So she nodded, and he went on.

“I didn’t want that,” he repeated softly, and she smiled, which somehow encouraged him. Maybe he thought she judged him for wanting more when he seemingly had it all, but she understood more than he probably could even guess at. “So I moved on. You see…” he paused, looking away.

When he went on too long, Gert said, “I can’t see; you left the light off.” Her dad used to say that when she was angry at him for some childish perception of being misunderstood, and it always broke the tension between _them_. When he laughed, and seemed surprised by it, she grinned, and he went on.

“I’m still in training,” he said finally, which explained the hesitation. “I’m still only at Tormi level, the second level, which isn’t very advanced. That light you saw was a kind of magic not used so much anymore, but that they still teach in the early levels. It’s called Earth’s Gold magic.” He smiled wider, this time with pride. “I seem to have an affinity with stones and metals.”

Gert’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth to blurt out her sudden conclusion, but he held up his hand, and she shut it. “The sword I commissioned from you is actually something I wanted to use to prove my teachers wrong. You see, they don’t believe me when I tell them that I have Earth’s Gold, since it’s so rare that they don’t even teach it anymore, save as theory. With those plans, I knew that each smith I asked would fail, because even though I have no training as a smith, I’m so attuned to the materials that I knew they were incompatible and wouldn’t forge. My teachers didn’t believe me, so here I am.”

“But that doesn’t sound like magic to me,” Gert admitted. “More like trial an error, something any smith can do. I thought magic had more…” and here she clumsily pantomimed gestures and hand symbols, which made them both laugh.

“Which, I agree, is a valid point,” Alchim said cheerfully, his past shame almost forgotten. His eyes shone so bright they mesmerised Gert, but with what, she didn’t know. Not yet. “Before I left the Academy, I left my teachers the exact formula I gave you, with the promise that I would find the best smiths beyond Kishal to test the design. If one could make it, I would give up. I would admit I lacked Earth’s Gold, and that it was just a dead magic. But only if I could find just one smith who could make it without any magical help.”

Something was bothering her about this. “You need to go back again,” she said, her voice sharp. “From what I understand, before you left, you thought up a plan to make a sword out of completely incompatible materials that you _knew_ , magically, would never meld together not because you have forge experience, but because…?” She stared at him and waved her hand.

He caught on. “Because with my magic, I can, in a manner of speaking, communicate with stones and metals,” he explained, eyeing her closely. It was almost as if he was expecting something else from her.

“So you somehow… what, _tell_ the metals to forge, so that despite their initial make, they would still make the sword, but only with your say?”

He beamed at her. “Yes,” he said, actually clapping his hands together once in his delight.

“Got it. Have you ever actually made this un-makeable sword with the other smiths, using your magic?”

Alchim shook his head. “No, I wanted to wait and make sure I had gone through the best before I did so. Which brought me finally to you.”

“The best, huh?” Gert echoed, her eyes focussing on her plate. She had to admit, once he spelt it out for her, it made strange, convoluted sense, One part of her didn’t like being used that way, but he was being upfront about it now and did seem sorry for his duplicity, so she forgive him that. Now that she knew that she had been doomed to fail from the start, it actually made her feel more confident in her craft,

Question was, was she good enough to work with magic? Because, like Alchim, she wanted to succeed.

“So with your magic and my forge,” Gert said now, “you can make the sword you drew up? Despite the fact that apparently the ingredients hate each other or something?”

Alchim smiled at the way she worded it, but nodded. Gert had to admit, now she was enchanted by the idea, and once again could easily imagine it in her head, only this time bathed in golden brown light.

“Let’s do this,” she said excitedly, her eyes finally meeting his, sharing the same glow.

Alchim stared back at her carefully. “Are you sure? You don’t mind?”

“I want to see this to the end,” she admitted. “This way, you’ll get your sword – and your proof – and I’ll have my bragging rights.” She grinned again at this last part, and got a laugh from him.

“Deal,” he agreed, and they shook on it.


	6. Chapter 6

For Gert, the very idea of magic tended to be too confusing for her to try to concentrate on for too long, though it was difficult to live in a continent like Mardimalle without at least _some_ knowledge of it. Gert knew that there were seven levels and that each level had their own attributes and styles, each more advance than the next. In addition to that basic knowledge, she also knew that each mage had a specialty (sometimes more than one) that determined their spellcasting for life. She didn’t know the names of the levels, or what the colours that each mage wore meant (though she knew it reflected their type of magic), but she did know that they always, without exception, embroidered the hems of all of their clothing they wore with the repeated symbol of their level.

Finally, she knew that, above all else, magic was a life-long vocation, and if a mage wanted to be skill, it took years of memorising symbols, lore, history, and theory just to earn the _right_ to be called a mage.

During wartime, mages were both feared and respected. War-Mages used their magic in battle; Healer-Mages used their magic after. Once peace finally fell, however, magic became a sort of niche arte, especially in Farm Town and other towns like it.

Gert knew it wasn’t easy to be a mage, yet Alchim, though, made it _look_ easy. As she mixed and melted the proper compounds for the metals they needed, she could hear him muttering foreign words under his breath so quickly and with such ease she wondered at it; _how does he not stutter? What would happen if he does?_ Gert wrinkled her nose and shrugged. _Probably best not to ask._

As she moved to form the moulds and gather the required alloys, he waved shimmering, golden-sparked hands over each mould and each melted metal pool, speaking more words. If she looked close enough, Gert could make out dozens of tiny golden symbols within the glitter.

It was these symbols that managed to merge many of the compounds together and form them into actual usable forms, unlike when she had tried and failed. The symbols acted much like a myriad of sewing needles, stitching together stubborn alloys and sands into a beautiful, solid material she could actually pour.

And finally, once she baked the sword and pulled it free, shocked to find it solid despite herself, he pressed his glittering palms against the side of the anvil she used to pound it flat, whispering more words and keeping his eyes closed as she polished it.

The entire project took several days, and though she tried to keep quiet, sometimes a few questions came out despite herself. Alchim, however, was very patient, and merely opened his eyes and paused to reply before resuming. Essentially, what he was doing was what he called “suggestions”; he compared it to trying to haggling with a merchant, only with several at once, and they also don’t get along, despite being stronger together. His method was like forming a kind of union of shared animosity, really, in order to make the whole stronger than ever. He nudged, pulled, pushed, and tweaked the incompatible raw materials into a completely moulded and malleable ore, but not using force. He made it seem like the materials themselves were actually alive, with personalities, and he was some kind of diplomat trying for peace.

She liked that comparison. She also found, as they worked and worked, that she was growing excited by it all. With Alchim, she was doing what was considered, for her profession, completely impossible. She was, with Alchim’s help, breaking the basic rules of physics, it sometimes seemed, and it was kind of intoxicating. That kind of power, the power to make things do what they usually do not, was incredible. She knew the sword was convoluted and, by all other means, unable to exist at all, and yet here she was, with the aid of Alchim’s magic, making something just like that. She suddenly felt like she vaguely understood the appeal of magic after all, with that kind of power.

Something else was also happening to her, something she hadn’t felt since her father died. She felt true passion for her work again, one that, she realised now, she never really had since his death. With Alchim, suddenly, she felt that spark reawaken in the forge of her heart, kindle and blaze into something wonderful again.

She felt like she finally understood her father, as well. She felt she now understood what made his eyes shine and blaze like fire, sometimes tears glazing those eyes at the mere existence of a flawless blade or tine. It was bittersweet, coming to this conclusion. Was it because Alchim was male? Or was it because she was challenged and was overcoming it, and Alchim was simply a means to that? Or something else altogether, something obvious but she just couldn’t see yet?

She missed her father deeply. She also already missed Alchim, who would, once they were done, leave, too, but in a different way. She realised, quite slowly and with a growing sense of pain in her heart, that he had filled her life with such richness in such small time that she knew she would likely never feel this way ever again in her entire life. Alchim would leave, and take with him that pleasure.

 _“Sometimes,”_ her father used to say, _“a sword doesn’t come alive until it finally settles in the hand of its destined owner. If the sword you make doesn’t either glow for the client or make the client glow, then you have failed at your job.”_

When she finally held up the finished sword, it was deep into the night. She was hungry, tired, and dirty, but her whole body was alight with joy. The blade shimmered, both from Alchim’s remaining magic and the reflection of the forge’s flames. The hilt was heavy but without straining the wrist, the blade itself as long as Alchim’s forearm, less a true longsword but more a rapier or short sword. Both she and Alchim were held speechless when she finally held it up, the act itself seeming to make their hard work finally real.

Never had Gert seen anything so perfect.

“Ah, Da,” she finally said, her voice soft and her whole body tingling. “Look at this impossible creature I hold.”

“It’s beautiful,” Alchim agreed. “He would be honoured. It almost glows.”

“You were right all along,” she replied, her heart feeling too large for her chest, her eyes now on his, which were still on the sword. “You have the magic.” She smiled, a sad one; they had worked so long and hard on it together, but now that it was over, it hadn’t seem long enough.

“Yes,” he agreed.

She carefully slid the sword from her to him, holding the hilt out for him to grab. He took it, his fingers closing over the hilt that was made for them. As he did, both it and his eyes seemed to glow golden for just a moment.

“I did my job,” she whispered upon seeing this, unable to keep the sting of tears from her eyes. “Your sword has a heart.”

A silence fell between them, not awkward, but certainly heavy.

“When will you go home?” Gert asked finally, moving her gaze back from his eyes to the sword, without realising that he had done the opposite.

Alchim looked into her eyes, then swallowed hard. “Not anytime soon,” he said.

Gert’s eyes shot to his, and she jumped, startled by his stare as well as his answer. He looked almost as surprised as she did, but she could tell he was being honest. He lowered the sword, placing it gently on the anvil. “I… don’t want to go back.”

Gert stared at him, and he stared back. She barely breathed, as if afraid to spook him. He went on, slowly, as if coming to the very conclusion he spoke of the moment he spoke of it.

“I don’t want to go back,” he repeated, stronger this time. “All they did was make me feel a fool, a deluded, lying fool, when all along I knew I was right. They wanted me to lie to myself, to conform, in that sea of magical nobodies.” His eyes darkened. “Nobodies that spend their lives competing against each other, never once thinking beyond that, never even looking up _at_ each other. I don’t want that anymore. I’m free of it, and… I think I have been since I started this whole thing.” His eyes softened, and his smile returned, this time with something she either hadn’t seen before or hadn’t noticed. “Because of you,” he concluded, reaching out and taking one of her hands in his.

Gert was the one who gulped this time, but she returned the gesture, holding on tight. “Alchim, it had been more about proving them wrong, and you know it. It was to find yourself.” She smiled back. “I know how hard that is.”

Alchim suddenly grinned, the whole gesture lighting his entire face. The stinging in her eyes returned, and to her shock, she found herself close to weeping.

“I _did_ find myself, Gert,” he agreed. He squeezed her hand tight. “But again, I also found _you_. Without you, there would be no sword. And in a way, no me for myself to find.”

She hadn’t expected this. She knew that her feelings had grown for him, from initial attraction, to intrigue, then finally to deep friendship and trust coupled with that same attraction, only stronger, now. He was her friend, truly. A _real_ friend. Her first real friend.

“Stay?” she said suddenly, feeling the tears spill over and clear two trails upon her face of soot. She had meant to say, “Are you going to stay?” Yet she had only managed the one word. Once it left her mouth, though, she didn’t correct herself, or add to it. Instead, she reached out, and grabbed his other hand into hers.

As Alchim answered, Gert could suddenly see, as clear as day, what would be. He would stay at the inn for several months, and together they would learn how to unite his brand of magic with hers, together working form her forge. They would specialise in magically-infused tools and weapons, ones that were designed to be made with limited supplies in areas lacking them to make said blades and tools. This would, in turn, see the small, shabby forge grow to a bigger, more furnished forge as demand, and thus income, increased. As their business grew, so would their affection for one another. With each success, they would take another step towards each other, closer and closer, until one day, a finished job was rewarded with hugs, kisses, and even more.

From there, he would stay at her home, helping with the expansion of the forge and increase in demand as well as living with her for the sake of her, first for a few nights each week, then most nights, then from weeks to months, until he would eventually move out of the inn and into her home for good. They would stay up late, discussing the future of their goods as well as themselves, exchanging ideas, stories, coming up with innovations, inventions, and additions to many of their goods. They wrote down everything they did, successes and failures, filling several books with accounts detailing Alchim’s methods with his magic, and Gert’s with her forge, and how they worked together, not falling asleep until close to dawn, only to start all over again.

Eventually, that growing love would sweeten into deep and true love, forged in fires of friendship, teamwork, compassion, and common ground. They would marry not only their skills, but themselves, as one, two talents and to skills becoming a single force. Together, they would be practically unstoppable.

And even then, more would come. Their constantly growing business attracted more and more people, bringing more and more settlers of all kinds to Farm Town, actually putting the place on the map. Eventually, it grew to be Farm Hamlet, then Farm City. The whole continent would soon not only learn of their success, but also learn it themselves, one that came from trying the impossible, over and over, until the possible finally came to light, be it with fire or magic.

And finally, many years down the line, when Farm City became too big to be called a mere city known solely for farming, and long after Alchim and Gert themselves had retired, their city and centre of trade was renamed Gerchim, forever melding the two seemingly incompatible forces as one. It would be the centre of magical masonry, one that would have many of Alchim’s former professors, all too late, realise their failure in their close-mindedness, and admit that indeed, he was right all along.

So when Alchim finally answered, his voice broke the spell of Gert’s self-inflicted fancy. It vanished like a puff of smoke, but remained within her mind once she heard his answer.

“Yes. Of course. I’m here to stay.”

Gertrude smiled so hard it hurt. She was already crying, and laughter mingled with tears as she threw her arms around him and hugged him tight, delighted when he did the same.

Both had found their hearts as well.

**\--THE END--**


End file.
